


Brothers In Arms

by Cat2000



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26341819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat2000/pseuds/Cat2000
Summary: Disclaimer: I don’t own anything from The Silmarillion and I’m not making any money from this ficSummary: Written for Katarina as part of the FandomGiftBox exchange. Maedhros and Maglor have a rare moment of peace, to be brothers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2
Collections: Fandom Giftbox 2020





	Brothers In Arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katarina/gifts).



> Warning(s): Spoilers for The Silmarillion; some references to violence

His blade sliced through the tree branch, sending it dropping towards the grass that surrounded him. He spun on his heel and cut the branch of the tree behind him, then ducked and turned, blade flashing and cutting through the first branch before it could hit the ground.

Two perfect halves of the branch landed in the grass, one falling neatly on either side of him.

He spun in a perfect semi-circle, sword aimed in front of him, blade at his brother’s throat.

Maglor stood, watching him, then took half a step back. His own sword was sheathed at his side. His lyre, his beloved instrument, was clasped in his hand. His long black hair streamed down over his shoulders, waving gently in the breeze.

Maedhros lowered his own sword, but did not sheathe it. He nodded to Maglor, letting his hand brush back the locks of his own dark red hair that had slipped into his eyes. “Have you come to spar? Or to lend your music to me to aid in my training?” He looked down, first at his left hand; then at the stump that his right hand ended in.

“Neither. I have come to talk.” Maglor stepped over to a fallen tree trunk and sat down. Lending a lie to his words, he set his lyre in his lap and began to gently strum the strings.

“As Maglor, my younger brother? Or as one who would speak for the rest of our brothers?” Maedhros sat down on the trunk next to his brother, placing his sword across his lap. Resting his arm across the flat of the blade, to keep it steady, he reached into the pouch he carried at his belt. He withdrew a rag and began to polish the blade.

“There is discontent among them.” Maglor’s fingers settled into an easy rhythm, the music from his lyre rising and falling as an accompaniment to his words. “You know that they believe you should be High King of the Noldor.”

Maedhros paused in the act of polishing his blade and looked out at the clearing. He hadn’t done much damage while he’d been training, careful only to cut free the branches that were already dead and dying. He could see the wood laying in the grass; glimpse it through the long blades of green. His eyes travelled from the small clearing to the stump of his right hand. Sometimes, his missing hand throbbed like he still had it. A phantom pain; fingers clenching and unclenching that no longer existed.

“Brother. You are distant. Your thoughts far from this place.” With a tiny hint of humour, Maglor added, “Far from the brother who sits beside you.”

“What do you think?” Maedhros looked into Maglor’s eyes.

The strumming stopped. Maglor closed his eyes, let his head tilt to one side. Like he was listening to something. He opened his eyes again and smiled at Maedhros. “I know why you did it.” He gathered the lyre under one arm; reached out to grasp Maedhros’ wrist. “We owe our kin a great debt that can never be repaid.”

“There are a great many things we owe that can never be repaid.” Maedhros couldn’t hide the note of regret in his voice and didn’t bother trying. Maglor was his second brother and the most gentle of them all, for all that he was a warrior who would fight at Maedhros’ back and at his side any time it was necessary.

Maglor squeezed his wrist and then let go, returning to the gentle strumming of his lyre. “I know,” he said softly. “There are many debts that we cannot repay. Perhaps we will have the chance to repay those in our next lives, though.”

“Do you think that way will be open to us from the Halls of Mandos?” Maedhros focused on the area surrounding them once more. “We have been cursed. We swore oaths that the Valar would have advised us not to swear. And in the pursuing of that oath, we have become kin-slayers. I cannot see a path ahead of us that will not end in us doing terrible things so that we keep our oath to our father,” he admitted.

The tune Maglor played turned softer and sadder, his music responding to his emotions and becoming more thoughtful. Pensive. He took his time responding, as if he wanted to gather his thoughts. Finally, he said, “I believe that redemption is possible for any soul, so long as they ask for it with a true heart.”

“I do not know how I will respond when I stand in the Halls of Mandos,” Maedhros said. “Perhaps I will feel no remorse and believe I have done everything right.” He shrugged and resumed polishing his blade. “At least when we pass from this world, we will be reunited with our Father and Mother.”

“Do you miss her?” Maglor asked the question suddenly, his own eyes focused on the clearing; on the surrounding trees. “Mother, I mean? Do you ever think about her? Wonder if she misses us? Do you think she still remembers what we look like?”

“I try not to think about her so much,” Maedhros admitted. “I believe she would not be happy in the turn our fates have taken.” He hesitated. “I have thought of writing a message to her. Of informing her of Father’s passing. But I haven’t the words to write that kind of information. Even if I hadn’t lost a hand. How can I tell her that he’s waiting in the Halls of Mandos?” He shook his head. “She should learn of it through the words from our lips. Not through a message given by someone who is not of her blood.”

“But one of us will never be able to tell her,” Maglor whispered.

“Perhaps it’s better. That she continue believing the best of us all, instead of learning of the worst we have done and will do in our future,” Maedhros said.

Maglor placed his lyre on the tree trunk on the other side of him and he drew his sword, climbing to his feet in one swift motion. “I saw that you have adjusted well to using only your left hand when training alone, brother. But can you do just as well against an opponent able to move as well as you?”

“Let us find out, brother.” Maedhros stood also, grasping his sword, readying himself.

** The End **


End file.
